One Hundred Years
by Luckynumber28
Summary: When Lirare met Thorin of Erebor, he had promised he would return to her home in the glade as soon as he could. One hundred years later, Lirare comes home to find him waiting in her kitchen. She is faced with the choice of telling him of a secret she has held for decades. Thorin/OC
1. A Hundred Years Without

The day was stagnant with heat unseasonable for spring. Down at the stream's edge, Lirare could see that the water had receded greatly with the drought that gripped the land. She knelt to the dusty earth, taking a handful of dried ground and running it through her fingers. Breathing deeply, Lirare closed her eyes and listened to the forest.

There had been a shift for the worse. Something had happened, perhaps something very benign, which had caused the season to draw in like a hermit crab in its shell. Lirare stood, brushing her hands on her apron as she surveyed the scene once more. She wondered if her mother Goldberry would discern what was happening in the world. Goldberry lived her man, Tom Bombadil, in the west taking care of their trees and saving travelers from the Barrow Downs.

Lirare slid down the bankside into the muddy water, not bothering to lift her green skirts from the slow moving current. She pulled her russet brown hair over her shoulder and leant to the water, concentrating as she dipped her fingers into the stream. She gathered the same sense from the water as she did from the dust. Her stomach lurched at the prospect. The earth was recoiling from the touch of evil. Where and what it was she did not know but the signs were clear. Something malevolent had been awakened.

There was a rustling in the brush nearby. Lirare sat up, unafraid as she shook the moisture from her hands. The sun had nearly disappeared below the tree line. Quietly from the wood, a small, dark wolf appeared. Lirare smiled and clicked her tongue. The animal tested the air with its nose, drawing close tentatively. Lirare's bare feet sunk into the bank as she approached the wolf, wringing the water from her skirts. The wolf did not shrink away as she reached out and allowed it to smell her open palm. After a moment, its body relaxed.

"Come along, little one." She coaxed, rubbing its tough skull between oversize ears, "We have supper waiting for us at home."  
Lirare's little home sat in a glade and built right into a large oak tree. Tom Bombadil had built it with his own hands all those years ago when she had first left her mother's side. It was a sturdy cottage with crooked windows and wildflowers growing in the cracks of the door and window frames. She strode across the glade, the wolf following her as the twilight started to descend on the wood. A few errant fireflies who were early in the season were winking amongst the darkening, giant trees that sheltered her home.  
The hinges of her front door creaked as she walked into the shadowy room, the air smelling of mushrooms, moss and dried flowers. The wolf started to cagily follow her in but froze at the threshold. It started to let out a low growl as Lirare lit a mulberry candle. She turned to the door, perching a hand on her hip and arching a brow at the wolf.

"It's just us." She coaxed gently but the animal continued to give a deep threatening growl, its paws dancing between the floorboards and the flagstone at the door.

Lirare felt her palms start to grow damp and her heart beat quicken. She was not normally fearful. Her entire childhood had been spent within a day's journey of the Barrow Downs where the ghosts of dead kings of men roamed. However, what she had sensed in the earth and water that day had set her nerves on edge.

She gripped the candle as night descended fully outside. She could feel the presence of something right behind her in the shadows. Turning slowly, she peered into the dark room and lifted the candle. A figure rose from a chair by the squat kitchen table.

"Who is that?" She demanded angrily, "How dare you enter my home?"

"Good evening, Lirare." A familiar voice drifted towards her.

Lirare felt her heart drop to her stomach. It had been years since she had heard that voice, however she knew immediately to whom it belonged even before he came into the weak candle light. She studied him in shock. He stood with his hands clasped at his back, peering at her with a quiet smirk. His long, dark hair was streaked with grey and his face lined with the cares of a hard lived life. However his eyes were still the same clear, corn flower blue they had been when they had first met all those years ago. Lirare let her breath out slowly, lowering the candle slightly.

"How are you?" He casually inquired as though it had been a matter of days since their parting.

Lirare approached him. She had always been petite, just reaching five feet by the time she was an adult. Thorin stood a little taller than her, despite his dwarvish lineage. She met his eyes evenly. His expression still held his prideful smirk. It reeked of insecurity to her.

"I've been well." She breathed, standing a hand's breadth from him, "Where have you been?"

The bearded corner of Thorin's mouth turned down slightly. His lack of reply ignited an old grudge against the dwarf.

"Actually, I have a better question than that." She snapped angrily, picking up some dry kindling on the table by the door and striding over to the hearth, "What exactly do you call a fortnight? You said you would return in a fortnight. That is two weeks if I am not mistaken, not a century."

She angrily struck the flint, letting sparks dust the straw. Thorin stood silent behind her. After the fire started to gather strength, Lirare breathed in the sweet scent of the fresh wood. She rose with her back to the room, unwilling to see if he had disappeared into the night.

Lirare heard the floorboards groan under his weight. His heavy dwarven boots, lined with fur even in warm weather, scraped the hardwood. She caught her breath as she sensed him right behind her. He reached out and brushed aside her hair from her shoulder, exposing her neck. She could feel him studying her wordlessly.

"You haven't changed at all." He spoke gently, "You are still the same as that day in spring when I first saw you. What were you doing again?"

Lirare was surprised to find herself swallowing back tears. She was nearly three hundred years old and the dwarf Prince could still reduce her to the emotions of an adolescent girl. She felt his bare fingertips graze her neck before he pulled away.

"I was bringing water from the stream."

She dared turn towards him, her heart beating hard in her chest. He nodded sadly, the firelight revealing that the years had truly taken their toll on him. His lips parted slightly, his eyes widening, as he reached out and gently took her face with a rough hand.

"I hadn't expected to find you." He confessed, locking her gaze with his, "I had hoped but didn't dream that you would still be here after all these years."

"Why didn't you come back?" She whispered, resting her hand on his, "You promised me, Thorin."

His face darkened as he turned away.

"I knew if I had then I never would have left you." He answered, "You know I have a destiny to fulfill."

"I know you have revenge to seek and gold to retrieve." She replied evenly, trying to ignore the old wound she felt opening.

Thorin turned sharply, "It is my duty that Erebor be redeemed to the line of Durin." His volume had risen, harsh in the quiet room.

"It is your duty to your predecessors that you live a full and rich life peaceably." She replied, approaching him from behind, "That is the destiny of all living things."

Lirare reached out tentatively, laying her hand on his broad back, "We could have had a happy life here as we had dreamed."

"Yes," He turned to her once more, studying her face as though trying to memorize her features, "It is a life I would have loved."

A scraping at the door distracted them both from the moment. Lirare glanced over to see a fawn she had been caring for since its mother was killed by wolves. It knocked against the doorframe impatiently.

"Though it would have been a life frequently interrupted by the creatures with whom you keep company." Thorin grumbled, rolling his eyes in vague annoyance.

"Won't you remove your armor? Please, make yourself comfortable" She reached out without hesitation and started to take the heavy fur vest he wore over his chain mail and leather, "You must be hungry."

It was obvious Thorin was not accustomed to being ordered about by those around him. However, despite being disgruntled by her tone, he obeyed starting to set aside his weapons. Lirare grimaced at the sight of his sword but said nothing, turning to the fawn at the door.

She pulled down the bowl of dandelion and medicinal herbs that she had gathered to help nourish the orphan now that it lacked its mother's milk. The fawn licked her hand as she led its freckled snout to the clay pot of greens.

Thorin pulled out the chair at the head of the table, scraping it hard against the floor. Lirare's whole being was electric with his presence. She had grown so used to her quiet, solitary life, the unbridled masculinity of the dwarf seemed to disturb the very air around her. Instead of bothering her, it left an aching absence in the pit of her stomach. She had so longed for him after he had abandoned her all those years ago.

She could still see in her mind's eye the two of them a hundred years before standing in the mid-autumn wood. Vibrant leaves fell around them in the golden dawn as they stood by his pony, packed to begin the journey back to Ered Luin where his people now lived. He had rested his forehead against hers and gathering her hands to his chest. As he had the night before in the faint light of the waning moon, he promised with all his heart that he would return to her.

Lirare shut the memory tightly away where it had been locked in her memory. The sweet pain of those words still bit through her being. She didn't know if she would be able to bid him farewell again.


	2. Till Dawn

Thorin observed Lirare as she prepared a stew of cabbage, spinach and wild rice. She sliced a clove of garlic on the table in front of him where he sat patiently. The firelight played off the arch of her pert nose and her angled jaw. Her lips parted slightly as she tried to keep her focus on her task. Her eyes flickered over to him for a moment before she gathered the garlic pieces and dropped them into the simmering cauldron. For a moment, he wondered if he just imagined her fingers trembling under his gaze. He shifted in the rough-hewn chair and stood, pulling his pipe from his breast pocket of his maroon shirt.

"Have you been traveling long?" She asked nonchalantly as he came up alongside her, bracing himself against the hearth as she stirred the stew.

"I come from a meeting in Bree." He picked up the candle on the mantle and kindled dried weed in the clay bowl of the pipe, "I am making my way back to the Iron Hills for a meeting with the other dwarf lords."

"So what does that make your visit here?" Lirare sat up straight, her jaw clenching, "Just a stop along the way, I suppose."

Thorin grimaced as the fragrant pipe smoke started to swirl around his head. He had not meant to say it as such. Truth be told, he had avoided this corner of the wood for years. He had done his best to numb his guilt with the ever driving need to reclaim what had been stolen from his family. However, he could never fully forget Lirare standing bare foot in the clear spring light, holding two buckets brimming with river water at her sides. The memory burned as clear in his mind as the sight of Erebor alight with dragon fire. Since meeting her, it seemed as though both paths had warred in his heart.

The light wavered across her expression. In the shadows, he could not tell whether she was hurt or angry. On impulse he reached out with his free hand, lightly touching her full lower lip with his thumb. Her eyes unfocused for a moment as she turned away abruptly towards the kitchen table.

Thorin ran his hand over his face in frustration at his stupidity. His prideful nature would never allow him to explain himself to her. He could speak reasonably of his choices, blame all on his familial obligations, and even have the arrogance to touch her as though she were his woman. However, he knew there was no way he would be able to put the way he felt for her into words. That was what she needed from him, not meager excuses while he pawed at her pathetically. He turned towards the hearth, leaning against it with his bare forearms.

"You look tired." She stated, taking her place by him again and filling a wooden bowl with the stew.

"Thank you," He replied steadily, taking the stew from her with a nod, "I travelled through the night. I did not sleep."

"It looks as though you have not slept in weeks." She filled her own bowl and returned to the kitchen table.

"There have been some developments." He followed her and took his seat across from her, "In March, I met Gandalf the Grey by chance at the Prancing Pony. He returned with me to my home in the Blue Hills. I just came from another meeting with him."

"How does the Grey Wanderer fare? I have not seen him since last year."

"He is well." Thorin filled his spoon with the steaming broth, "Do you still refuse to cook with meat?"

Lirare glanced up and arched a brow, "I would think after coming miles through the night and into today, you would be grateful for a hot meal."

He smirked playfully, not breaking eye contact as he brought the spoon to his mouth. Lirare sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest, watching him with wry expectation.

"I think my cooking can stand on its own without meat." The corner of her mouth rose slightly as she spoke.

He nodded as he swallowed, the liquid burning his throat, "Aye mistress, that it can."

Slowly, she began to smile. Fighting it, she looked down at her stew again and shook her head. Thorin couldn't help but smile as well in return. He chuckled lightly as he turned to his meal once more.

"So what are these developments you speak of?" She asked, her voice still light.

Thorin shifted uneasily, "It concerns a chance for us to return to Erebor."

Lirare nodded without looking up at him.

"Gandalf has said there might be a way. I have called to my kin from the Lonely Mountain and we will meet at the Shire in a few weeks' time." He explained, his tone turning cold and matter of fact as he became uneasy with her silence, "Such a prospect would be priceless."

"There is still a price to the things you seek." She replied, "I fear that I have always known you would be willing to pay it."

"I could not turn back if I wanted." He answered firmly, "I am bound to my fate."

"Fate is nothing but a choice." Lirare turned her dark green eyes on him calmly, "If you make your way for Erebor, it will because you willed it."

"Then it is my will." His voice rose sharply and his brow furrowed as he glared up at her.

Lirare pursed her lips and looked away, taking her half full bowl over to the open door. She whistled lightly out into the night and crouched to the ground as the wolf came obediently. The animal lapped at her food as she stroked its ears. Thorin felt his temper begin to ebb. He rested his forehead on his palm and exhaled.

"You needn't carry guilt for choosing what you call your fate over me." She said, looking out into the glade as the crickets started to sing in the high grass, "I have always known where your heart lay. When you leave from this place, I want you to do so with peace."

Thorin stood abruptly, the chair nearly falling backwards as he pushed away from the table. Striding over to where she stood, she looked over at him in surprise as he took her by the arms.

"Lirare," He breathed roughly, "Do not speak of my leaving you as though it were simple for me."

"It was easy enough for you to forget about me for decades." She managed to choke out as tears started to gather in her eyes, "It would have been better had you stayed away."

"I couldn't." He took her face in his hands fervently, "This quest could be the death of me. I could not leave without seeing you once more. Living with just the memory of you has been terrible but to die with only those fleeting moments would be unimaginable. There has been no peace in my heart from the moment I laid eyes on you and I fear there will never be again."

She placed her hands over his as the sounds of the warm spring night started to envelop them in the doorway. Somewhere in the wood, an owl cried to the waning moon half shadowed by a few wayward clouds in the otherwise clear sky. Thorin's mouth parted as he studied her face in the starlight. Her breath caught in her throat as he firmly pressed his lips against hers, pushing her back into the doorframe.

All the memories he had fought to suppress of swimming together in the clear stream waters cold with melted snow, laughing at the antics of a couple territorial mocking birds and holding her as she slept in the quiet hours before dawn came rushing back. He pressed against her, taking her waist in his large hands decisively. He had never longed for another as he did Lirare. He knew as long as he lived there would never be another for him.

She pulled away, breathing deeply.

"Thorin," She gasped, "You must leave by dawn."

Thorin was taken aback by her statement. He stumbled back, his brow lowering as he fought to gain composure.

"What do you mean?" He demanded, "Come with me, leave this place. When we take Erebor back, return with me to the mountain."

"And become Queen?" She shook her head in confusion, "Even if such a thing were to happen, do you really believe I could survive in the cold, stone halls of your people? No sunlight and nothing green?"

Thorin turned away with a groan, running a hand through his hair, "There must be a way."

"There is none." Her voice cracked with emotion, "This was a fool's hope, my love."

At the tenderness in her voice, he faced her once more. The look on her face nearly rent him in two. The thought of continuing on without her was unbearable. As her face began to collapse with sorrow, his body relaxed. He realized he had only been concerned with his own selfish needs since they had met. He had left her because it was best for him. He had returned because it was best for him. He wondered if he had ever truly considered what was best for her. He turned back to where he had left his things.

"Please, Thorin. Stay and get some rest." She begged as he started to buckle the bracers on his wrists.

After he did not answer, she approached him stopping his hand as he picked up the heavy chain mail shirt. She placed a hand on his cheek and turned his face towards her.

"Please Thorin," She breathed as he instinctively wrapped an arm around her hip, "Stay till dawn."


	3. Thistle

Thistle could feel the sun coming up behind her, warming the dark cloth of her cloak as she rode her pony through the wood. She had started her journey much earlier that day, feeling an intense need to reach home as soon as she could. Pulling the deep hood back, she peered back at the white and fire yellow dawn as it started to splash across the light layer of clouds. The birds were already brewing a cacophony of song in the budding branches overhead.

Springtime was Thistle's favorite season. However, she had sensed something different about this spring than others in the past. The burgeoning green was not as vibrant and the flowers seemed to be taking longer to bloom. Even the very earth under her feet seemed to be on edge. The borders of the Ettenmoors had felt even more uneasy. She had decided to wait to speak of it until she returned home.

Thistle inhaled as she entered the glade where she had been born and spent her childhood. The sharp scent of fresh grass mingling with the morning mist swirled around her. Her mother greatly preferred the quiet of her home built by Tom Bombadil to any other setting. In contrast, as soon as she was old enough to be on her own, Thistle had wandered. Independent, wildly curious and impulsive, Thistle had always felt drastically different from her mother and her grandmother, Goldberry. They carried themselves with such grace and surety, leaving those they met with in awe. Thistle was positive that something had gone wrong with her.

She clicked her tongue, stopping the animal short and dismounting. Leading the pony over to the large beech tree by their home, she tied its rein to a post. As she did, she noticed fresh marks in the brush where another pony had clearly just been led out into the wood. Her brow furrowed as she studied the ground. With a shrug, she headed towards the door. Though it was rare, her mother did occasionally have the company of a traveling elf friend or even her own grandmother.

Thistle pushed the door open to find her mother by the table gathering dishes from her morning meal. She looked up and smiled brightly, however her eyes remained slightly unfocused. Thistle grinned back suspiciously.

"What are you up to?" She asked, closing the door behind her and starting to remove her cloak.

"What kind of greeting is that, beloved?" Lirare asked innocently, setting the crockery down and approaching her child, "I have missed you."

Thistle wrapped her arms around her mother as she embraced her, breathing in her earthy scent. Her wavy hair, the color of finished mahogany, smelled of smoke from the morning fire in the hearth. Lirare pulled back and studied her daughter strangely.

"What is it?" Thistle laughed lightly as she mother smoothed her jet black hair behind her shoulders.

Though she had her mother's full lips and angled chin, Thistle was as dissimilar from her mother as red clay from river water. Her aquiline nose perched strongly on her square face, hemmed by tight, dark curls. Where her mother's eyes were the color of rich, summer moss, her own were clear blue. Lirare had never spoken of her father. Seeing as Lirare did not know her own paternity either, it had never concerned Thistle. However she had occasionally wondered what kind of man he was to give her such striking features and a bull headed nature.

"I'm just relieved to have you home for a little while." Lirare gave her daughter another enigmatic smile before returning to the hearth, "How was your journey to the ettenmoors? Did you find the eagles?"

Thistle took a seat at the kitchen table. The air seemed heavy with a smell she wasn't familiar with in her mother's home. It was the heady mix of sweat, pipe weed and the open road, something she was more accustomed to in public houses. Her mother set a mug on the table in front of her steaming with tea. Thistle cradled her chilled hands around the pottery.

"Yes, it was a successful venture. Gwaihir found me right outside the moors. His ill hatchling is much better now." Thistle replied with a nod as her mother sat before her.

"I knew you would be able to handle it by yourself." Lirare swirled her tea in her cup.

Thistle decided it would be best if she didn't speak of the trouble she had experienced on her way home. The Great Eagle Lord had flown her to the borders of their wild land where she started her journey back to the wood on foot. Two nights earlier she had accidentally stumbled upon a rogue troll in the late twilight. With just a short hunting knife to defend herself, she did her best to fight off the creature. However, she had been quickly overpowered by the monster and was preparing herself to be eaten alive.

Suddenly, a large, heavily tattooed dwarf came out of the darkness fiercely swinging a stone hammer and an axe. He made quick work of the surprised beast and had helped Thistle to her feet. Introducing himself as Dwalin, they built a fire and shared a meal of venison, which was a detail that would definitely not be mentioned to her vegetarian mother. They shared a merry evening and bid each other a fond farewell the next morning. Before he had turned to leave, Dwalin had paused and studied Thistle in the clear morning light. When she asked him what was wrong, he merely shook his head and chuckled. He said for a moment she had reminded him of a dear friend.

"Did you have any visitors while I was gone?" Thistle asked casually, glancing up at her mother.

Lirare shook her head, "No, I'm afraid your mother has become quite the hermit. Give me a few decades and I guarantee I'll be as batty as Radagast the Brown."

Thistle rolled her eyes and gave a breathy laugh. However, as convincing as she sounded, she couldn't help but notice a strange note in her mother's voice. A scratching came at the closed door. Lirare walked over and opened it to the wolf pup she had been caring for sitting obediently waiting for its meal.

"Thistle, would you mind getting some leftover stew over the fire for our visitor?" Lirare asked, kneeling down before the animal.

Retrieving a shallow, wooden saucer, Thistle walked over to the bubbling pot on the fire. As she picking up the serving trowel, she glanced up at the mantle piece. She paused and arched a dark brown as she reached out and picked up a fine, clay pipe. This was evidence enough to prove her mother was hiding something from her. If she didn't eat meat, Lirare was surely not a smoker of pipe weed. A strange crest had been finely carved by hand on its side. Thistle studied it curiously.

"Thistle, our friend is hungry." Her mother's voice startled her out of her musings.

Thistle covertly tucked the pipe into the fitchet hanging from her waist. She knew if she asked her right then, Lirare would never admit to it. However, if she waited till just the right moment, she might be able to glean some clues from this mystery.


	4. After the Battle

Breaching the hill, Thistle looked out upon the battlefield. The mangled carnage of man, elf, dwarf and orc lay strewn across the massive face of the mountain where a great battle had been fought. In the wake of the grief stricken past months, she was horrified to find that she was not repulsed by the sight.

Thistle stumbled down the dry gravel of the overhang, her curls falling from the loose leather tie holding them at bay. A bitter November wind swept down the barren strait she was passed through. The closer she came to the mountain, the more mangled remnants of battle started to pile up around her. She stumbled over the hewn body of a dead warg, its tongue lolling from its bloody fangs. Thistle brought her hand to her face, finding that her cheeks were cold with tears she hadn't realized she had shed. A grey twilight began to fall over the field, the clouds hanging heavy in the sky overhead.

As Thistle drew closer to the Lonely Mountain through the deepening blue shadows, she started to see activity at the root of the mountain. She was thankful that in the gathering dark it was difficult to get a good look at the strewn forms of bodies mounded around her. Keeping her gaze before her, she breathed strongly through her nose. The heady scent of spilt blood and smoke was thick in the air. She knew if she inhaled through her mouth, she would be tasting death for weeks.

In the dark she could see the silhouettes of what looked like dwarves or shorter men holding torches aloft. Not watching where she was going, she tripped falling hard to the slick ground. She stood, gasping as she desperately rubbed her hands on her worn, homespun gown. It had not rained that day. The only thing that could be dampening her hands from the earth was blood.

"Who goes there?" She heard a threatening voice thick with an accent cut the dense air.

Thistle's eyes widened as the light of the torch drew closer, her pupils dilating in the faint glow. She clutched her cloak around her, grasping the short knife at her waist.

"Answer quickly or risk death." The voice of the approaching figure came again.

Thistle froze, fear turning to adrenaline in her veins as she started to shiver. The figure of a heavily armored dwarf came into view. Thistle squinted, hardly believing who it was before her. The dwarf she had met by chance on the road months before was standing in front of her, his face smeared with blood and soot.

"Dwalin?" She breathed, stepping forward.

He held an axe in his free hand ready to defend himself. However, as he took her in, his arm dropped in surprise.

"Lass," He choked, "What in Durin's name are you doing here?"

"I am seeking my father. I was told I would find him here at the Lonely Mountain."

"It is dangerous for you to be out here alone, girl."

Dwalin now stood before her, meeting her gaze with weary eyes.

"I did not know of the battle until yesterday," She answered, "By luck, I made it unscathed past the retreating remnants of the enemy. I hid in a tree top last night."

"But your father?" Dwalin asked, reaching out and gripping her arm as she swayed once more with exhaustion, "Who is the man?"

Thistle gave a weary, close mouthed smile, "My mother told me on her death bed. He is no man. I seek a dwarf named Thorin, do you know of him?"

Dwalin's face remained staid as he studied her, "I had thought your looks were too familiar when last we met," He whispered, his voice heavy with emotion, "Aye lass, I can take you to your father."

Thistle let out her breath but still felt wary. She wondered if the dwarf would claim her as his own. She had never heard the name Thorin and truth be told, Dwalin was the only one of his kind she had ever met until then. However without this stranger called Thorin, she would be an orphan. She pushed the memory of her mother's once full, beautiful face lying gaunt and pale on her pillow, her formerly rich hair thin and dull about her face. It had been a month since Lirare had breathed her last and still Thistle felt as though she were merely waiting for her return in the glade.

Abruptly, Dwalin took her hand in his and started to lead her through the carnage. They approached the nearby group of dwarves as they searched through the dead.

"I must return to the mountain," Dwalin announced gruffly, taking the reins of a pony from one of the battle worn dwarves.

Without warning, Dwalin hoisted Thistle by the waist onto the animal. Mounting the pony behind her, he gripped the reins and spurred it to a light run towards the looming shadow of the mountain.

"Lass, I can't promise you we'll reach him in time." His voice cracked as he spoke, "He's taken badly hurt."

Thistle felt her stomach drop. So it was as her mother had feared on her own death bed.

_"Thistle, I have done you harm keeping you in ignorance of your father." Lirare had struggled to whisper, holding her daughter close, "Seek the Lonely Mountain in the east. Thorin, a mighty dwarf of Erebor, will be redeeming what was stolen from his family. He deserves to know of his child, though I fear he has already been lost."_


	5. The Blossom Amongst the Thorns

Dwalin spurred the pony to a halt before a grand tent amidst the languishing bodies of wounded dwarves. Dismounting, he helped Thistle to the stony earth. The Lonely Mountain loomed over her like the dark dread that lay on her heart. Dwalin took her hand and led her towards the dark blue folds of the fine tent.

Thistle felt her breath catch in her throat as she recognized the tall, road weary form of Gandalf the Grey or Mithrandir as he was known amongst the elves. She had grown up with him visiting their home for a meal and talk with her mother. He had always brought her trinkets from the outside world which had sparked on her desire to see what lay beyond the wood where she was born. It had been over a year since their last meeting.

The wizard's thickly bearded face was stained with ash, his alert blue eyes shining out like early stars in a summer's night. The corner of his mouth turned down as he watched her approach. She couldn't help but notice how unsurprised he was to see her.

"So she told you, my girl?" His voice soft with fatigue and emotion.

Thistle nodded, glancing at the grand tent behind him, "Aye, Lirare told me I could find my father here. Where is he?"

Gandalf passed a look to Dwalin who turned away. The dwarf's expression was suddenly uncharacteristically vulnerable.

"The King is near death." The wizard reached forward and set a heavy hand on her shoulder.

Thistle breathed deeply, her dark brow furrowing in thought, "King? I seek my father, the dwarf called Thorin."

"They are one in the same, child." Gandalf nodded solemnly, "Thorin Oakenshield, the last of the line of Durin and King Under the Mountain."

Though the titles meant nearly nothing to Thistle who had been brought up so very sheltered, the concept of a King was not lost to her. She stumbled back slightly but was righted by Gandalf who bent to her level. His eyes burnt through her.

"Child, are you able to see him?" He asked, "You have travelled far. He would not know the difference if you chose not to see him. Your mother will understand."

Thistle blinked, "She is dead."

Gandalf stared at her in shock for a moment. Heaving a breath, his face fell, "How?"

"There is a growing evil." Thistle felt as though she reciting a well-worn verse, "You must have felt it taking root. It's slowly killing our wood. Mother was tied too firmly to the earth for her heart not to be poisoned. She merely faded away like the leaves in autumn."

Gandalf stepped back, running a hand through his beard as his eyes started to gleam in the torchlight.

"So you see, Gandalf," Thistle explained, "There is nothing else left to me but the stranger dying in that tent. Whether he is a king or not, he is my father and the only living part of my mother left aside from Goldberry. I have no choice, it is my fate."

Gandalf's mouth turned to a hard line as he gazed at her, "You are indeed your father's daughter. Wait for me out here."

Gandalf sat her at a stool by the door of the tent. Thistle started to shiver violently as the exhausted dwarf warriors passed by without a glance at her small form.

"Here you go, lass." Dwalin suddenly appeared before Thistle, wrapping a heavy blanket around her trembling shoulders and cupping her hands around a steaming mug, "It's watered mead. At least it's warm and will steady your nerves."

Thistle nodded as he crouched on the ground beside her. Tipping the cup back, she took a deep drink. Soon she started to feel the liquor numbing her like the grief that threatened to suffocate her. She glanced over to see Dwalin sitting with his chin resting on his folded hands.

"What kind of dwarf is he?" Thistle inquired, torchlight flickered off Dwalin's tattooed scalp.

"A good one." Dwalin spoke after a pause, "A good leader, fighter, king…and a good friend."

Thistle nodded. Grief over this unknown parent started well in her as strongly as it had when her mother took her last breath.

"Now mind you, lass. He can be as stubborn and stupid as an ass." Dwalin chuckled mirthlessly, "But I will never bow to another."

The tent flap brushed aside, Gandalf silently holding out a hand to Thistle. Nodding her thanks to Dwalin, she gave him the blanket and empty mug. Taking Gandalf's hand, the wizard led her into the dark interior of the tent.

The wide space was laid out with furs beneath their feet. A few torches burnt dimly by the ornate cot at the end of the room. She could hear the labored breathing of a wounded individual but could only see a deeply shadowed form. Wide eyed she looked back at Gandalf.

"His wounds are severe." Gandalf gripped her fingers close to him, "But he is still aware of his surroundings. I have done my best to explain to him your identity."

"Girl," A voice demanded wearily from the cot, "Come here."

Giving Gandalf's hand a final squeeze, Thistle cagily made her way across the furs. Armor that had been damaged in the battle lay discarded nearby. A large sword that looked more of Elven make lay nearby, tainted with black orc blood.

She soon reached the side of the cot. The dwarf lay on clean, white blankets, his chest bandaged with linen. However, dark blots of crimson stained the dressings. His breathing was weak and his skin palid with what she guessed was a heavy loss of blood. Wearily, the dwarf opened his eyes. In the firelight, Thistle felt her heart start to pound as she noticed his eyes were the same shade and shape as her own. His black curls as wild as her own. Despite his condition, his face still held a stubborn pride that she knew her own expression possessed. He lifted a hand toward the wooden stool near his head. Thistle didn't speak but obeyed his direction. Her eyes dropped under his scrutiny.

"So it is true." He managed, "The line of Durin will not end this night."

Thistle's eyes met his once more, "Mother said you deserved to know of me."

His mouth tightened, though she was unsure if it was for grief or pain, "Your mother meant more to me than any other woman I have ever known. Last we met she said we would have been happy if I had been brave enough to choose a life with her."

"You visited her this past spring, did you not?" Thistle asked quietly.

His brow furrowed, "How did you know?"

Thistle shrugged and reached into her cloak, pulling out the ornate pipe from her pocket. Thorin's eyes widened as he reached out and took it from her fingers.

"You forgot it on our mantle." Thistle explained, looking down at her hands, "I guessed after she told me of you…"

"Before she died." Thorin finished her sentence, studying the pipe gravely.

Thistle did not reply but could only nod in response.

"And now you must sit at the death bed of your father." Thorin turned to her.

Thorin's hand lifted, cupping her cheek with his rough fingers. Thistle choked back a sob.

"You weep for a man you have never known." He spoke quietly, wiping a tear away with his thumb, "I should be the one mourning that I shall never know you better, daughter."

Thistle shook her head with a sniff, "I have been blessed in a way my mother never was. I have met my father."

"What is the name your mother gave you?"

"Thistle." She replied with a shaky grin, "She said it was for the beauty of the thistle plant in the season when I was born. But all I could see were the thorns at its base. I believe my birth gave her more pain than pleasure."

Thorin sat up, his face suddenly fierce, "That is not true. The thistle is the strongest of blossoms, the thorns defend it from its enemies. Your mother gave you the name of a fighter. After this evening, you must continue to fight. The world grows dark, daughter. I am heartbroken that I will not be here to keep you safe from its shadows."

His face suddenly fell, stricken with pain. He collapsed back into the cot, writhing for a moment. Thistle stood abruptly, clasping his hand to her. Gandalf was suddenly at her side.

"Call for Dwalin," Thorin demanded of the wizard, gripping his daughter's hand.

Gandalf made no comment but obeyed, bringing the large dwarf from outside the tent. Dwalin was quickly at his King's side, kneeling beside the cot next to Thistle.

"Yes, my Lord?" Dwalin bowed his head, his voice unwavering though his shoulders trembled slightly.

"My dearest brother." Thorin loosed his daughter's hand and laid it on the dwarf's arm, "I will not last the night. You must promise me. Guard my treasure, my family's legacy is all that is left to me."

Dwalin looked up, meeting his gaze.

"Here is one whose worth is more precious than any jewel my fore fathers could have imagined," Thorin's voice started to fade, "The last of my house and the blossom amongst the thorns, my daughter."

Dwalin nodded wordlessly. Satisfied, Thorin laid back on the cot. Closing his eyes, he lasted a few more hours. However he did not speak again.


	6. A Spring Like No Other

_Thorin opened his eyes. The fierce dawn burnt through the deeply shadowed eaves of an ancient wood. He paused, the sound of a nearby river echoed towards him. His boots sinking into the mossy earth thick with pine needles, he started to make his way through the spring wood. The chill of the dark night was starting to subside._

_He felt like he had forgotten something. It was as though a passing dream lingered on the edges of his consciousness. He could remember the gleam of firelight, the sharp brightness of a girl's blue eyes and the haunting grief of dear friends whose names he could no longer recall. However, there was a realness to the sound of that river water. Above his head a thrush sang out as it flickered from budding branch to branch. It was a spring like none other he could remember._

_There was a rustling before him. Thorin stood still his tracks as a figure appeared up from what he assumed to be a river bank. It was a girl, bare foot with her arms heavy with water buckets at her sides. She halted, a shard of sunlight revealing her face. The light caught the surprise in her wide green eyes, her mouth parting slightly. The image shot through his very being._

_Not saying anything, he approached her where she stood unmoved. A breeze caught her hair, dusting it off her shoulder. He reached out and took one of the buckets from her hands. He could not remember who she was but he knew her. Without a word, she took his arm with a serene smile as they started towards home._

* * *

The clouds hung low over the Lonely Mountain when morning came a few hours later. Thistle stood outside the dwarf encampment, gazing at the ravaged field before the mountain. She clung to the blanket that Dwalin had given her. Staring out bleary eyed at the carnage, all she felt she was looking at was so much meat. Dust returning to the dust. A light rain misted her face as a heavy autumn fog rolled towards her.

Thorin had passed from this world as her mother had, leaving her feeling very much alone. Goldberry and Tom Bombadil in the west cared for her deeply but they had always been slightly disconnected from this world. Besides, her dwarvish blood was all Thistle now knew of her lineage. This was her legacy. Of course, she would never make a claim to the throne of Erebor. She had already heard that the man Bard the Bowman was destined for that title and she wished him well. However, she could not deny that there was something that spoke to her in the echoing and snow dusted passages of the mountain behind her.

"Lass, the rain will pick up soon enough." Dwalin was suddenly beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder protectively, "You'll be catching your death out here."

Thistle turned towards her protector, the dwarf her father had left with the honor of looking after the last of Durin's house. The corner of his bearded mouth lifted slightly in an attempted smile. However, his face was gaunt and weary. She knew she must look similar after the past several sleepless nights.

"You must rest." Dwalin pulled his hand away, nodding towards the tents, "I'll be sure you're not disturbed."

Thistle was too heart sick to argue. She conceded, walking with him towards a smaller tent beside the one where her father's body lay. Before entering, she paused. Putting a hand on the dwarf's arm where he already stood at attention by the cloth flap, he turned towards her.

"My father has left me in the care of a fine dwarf." She smiled gravely, "I am blessed to know you, Dwalin."

Dwalin looked down at the ground. She was shocked to see his eyes starting to brim with unshed tears. Such an admission of emotion was strange for a dwarf.

"I am the one that is blessed by you, my lady." He straightened, "There is no greater honor I could think of for a dwarf than the one your father had bestowed on me."

Thistle drew her hand away. With one last grateful glance, she disappeared inside and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Her protector faithfully stood at watch outside the tent till she awoke later that evening. He did not stir nor sleep the entire day.

* * *

**Author's Note: Just an update, I have written a continuing fanfiction about Dwalin and Thistle called "Last of the House of Durin: The Blossom Amongst the Thorn". The link is on my profile (: I hope you enjoyed the story! Please check out the sequel, its been a fun one to write.**


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